The Field Sparrow is all the more interesting because of its shyness. Mr. Keyser speaks of it as “a captivating little bird, graceful of form and sweet of voice, singing his cheerful trills from early spring until far past midsummer. The song makes me think of a silver thread running through a woof of golden sunshine, carried forward by a swinging shuttle of pearl.” Mr. Chapman says: “There is something winning in his appearance; he seems such a gentle, innocent, dove-like little bird. His song is in keeping with his character, being an unusually clear, plaintive whistle, sweeter to the lover of birds’ songs than the voice of the most gifted songstress.” It is not possible to describe the song in words, for it varies greatly. No two birds seem to have the same song and the same bird may vary its song. Locality also seems to affect its character. It is the sweetest at the going down of the sun and in the early twilight. To hear it then, in the absence of all other sounds, is indeed soul inspiring. Its delicate nest, too, becomes the lovely character of this little bird. This small house is usually placed near the ground in a low shrub, or on the ground where it is well protected by tall grasses. The nests are not usually found near fence rows, but rather in less public places, on hillsides and nearer the center of the field. When possible, a thorny bush is chosen. The nest is constructed of fine grasses and very fine roots loosely woven together and lined with finer grasses, hair and the delicate bark fibers. Writing of the finding of a Field Sparrow’s nest near the top of a hill, some one has said: “How ‘beautiful for situation’ is this tiny cottage on the hill! Here the feathered poets may sit on their leafy verandas, look down into the green valleys and compose verses on the pastoral attractions of Nature. One is almost tempted to spin a romance about the happy couple.” DISHRAG VINES. Margie was cross. It was a rainy day, and she was having to sew; two things she hated. “I think it might rain on school days. And I wish dish-cloths had never been invented,” she exclaimed, jerking her thread into a tangle. “You ought to move down south,” quietly said her aunt. “Why? Don’t they have rain and dish-cloths there?” “Yes, of course they do; and I will tell you a true story, if you will promise not to complain the least bit for the rest of the day.” Margie promised; and, after threading a needle, her aunt began: “When I was in Georgia, last October, I saw a queer vine growing over the porch of an old negro’s cabin. It looked like a pumpkin vine, with its great coarse leaves, and it had green, gourd-like seed pods, or fruit, hanging all over it. I asked the old colored man, who was hoeing near by, about it, and he said, in surprise: ‘Lawsy me! Didn’ you neber heerd tell ob a dishrag vine afore?’ “‘Dishrag!’ I echoed.